


Faster Than a Speeding Bullet

by sajere1



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Mostly Fluff, References to Superman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:32:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4174833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sajere1/pseuds/sajere1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Evening, boys,” comes a rough English accent, and Mack glances over his shoulder to watch Hunter strut in, a bag of Fritos in one hand, smirking idly at nothing. He leans his weight against the couch, giving them both a faux friendly smile. “Planning a date?”</p>
<p>“What,” Mack says.	</p>
<p>Hunter’s grin widens. “You know. Dinner and a movie. Sounds like a date to me.”</p>
<p>There is a short pause. “Well,” Fitz says thoughtfully, “technically, yes.”</p>
<p> [or: mack and fitz keep accidentally doing totally platonic couple stuff. no homo tho. probably]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faster Than a Speeding Bullet

Of all things, it starts with Superman.

“Listen, I’m not saying that he’s a _bad_ hero,” Mack says, hands up in mock surrender and face as blankly innocent as he can possibly make it. “But he’s a _power fantasy_. I mean, he’s based on Asgardians. We’ve _met_ Asgardians. He’s a version of them that ignores their whole mythos and society and turns it into a completely blank, boring background so that people will like him more. It’s incredibly disrespectful to their culture.”

“Well, _first off_ ,” Fitz begins, drawing himself up in his chair and narrowing his eyes so that Mack knows he’s about to be properly lectured, “Superman isn’t from Asgard, he’s from _Krypton,_ which is a completely fake planet so they can create whatever mythology about it they damn well want. And second off – secondly – even if he _were_ from Asgard, he was raised on Earth so – of course his morals line up with humans’, he’s basically a human alien. Which you – you would _know_ these things if you just watched the damn movie with me.”

“Media draws from reality, Fitz,” Mack snorts, crossing his arms and leaning back into the soft plush of the sofa. He’s had to curl almost uncomfortably in on himself to fit the kid on the couch with him; the Halo title screen blinks at them from the TV, and the controller lying on the table has been temporarily abandoned in favor of the cutting look Fitz is giving him. “A humanoid alien sent to earth to protect us? It’s a dark-haired Thor. Just because they don’t say it doesn’t make it not true. And even if it weren’t, we have too much work to do to watch a movie that looks godawful.”

“One night!” Fitz throws his hands in the air; it’s only through his lengthy exposure to everything Fitz that Mack knows to duck so he doesn’t get smacked in the face. “We would take _one night off!_ It isn’t even a _long_ movie – we’d be gone a couple hours, tops.”

“A couple hours of unadulterated torture.”

Fitz stares for a moment, lips pursed in concentration; Mack’s eyes flick from his face down to his lap, where he’s desperately wringing his hands. Normally Fitz snaps his fingers, but Skye had snarked at him about it last week and he’s been trying to cut it out – a damn tragedy, Mack knows, because he’s been irritable and self-conscious since.

Finally, Fitz huffs an angry breath and leans inwards just enough his so his elbow brushes Mack’s. “Alright,” he grumbles. “Fine. If you go see this movie with me, we can check out that Thai restaurant you keep talking about.”

Mack almost shoots up in his seat. “Wait, really?” he asks, and Fitz nods reluctantly. Mack splits out into a grin before he can stop himself. “No going back on that, alright?”

“Are you ‘no tacksies backsies’-ing me?” Fitz demands, looking scandalized – and, at Mack’s meaningful look, adds with an exasperated grunt, “Fine, yes, I won’t go back on it. We can go eat Thai and then watch Superman.” He blinks, purposefully giving Mack a wide-eyed stare. “Please?”

There is a long moment of silence before Mack nods, slow and deliberate, and Fitz lets out a joyful _whoop_ and flops back in his seat.

“Evening, boys,” comes a rough English accent, and Mack glances over his shoulder to watch Hunter strut in, a bag of Fritos in one hand, smirking idly at nothing. He leans his weight against the couch, giving them both a faux friendly smile. “Planning a date?”

Mack frowns. “What?”

Hunter’s grin widens. “You know. Dinner and a movie. Sounds like a date to me.”

There is a short pause. “Well,” Fitz says thoughtfully, “technically, yes.”

"But as friends," Mack adds.

"Yeah. No homo, or whatever the kids say these days."

Mack resists the urge roll his eyes as Hunter snorts and puts a friendly hand on Fitz’s curls, pulling away when he wrinkles his nose and shakes it off. “Alright, boys, whatever you say,” he grins. “I’ll just leave you to it.”

With that he takes his exit, flouncing just as much as he had when he entered, casting a final mischievous glance over his shoulder.

There is a moment of silence. “Huh,” Fitz says.

“Well,” Mack agrees.

“I call Halo first,” Fitz decides, and the moment passes.

+x+

They mutually decide to leave the Thai-and-Superman night for a week or so in hopes it will deter Hunter from his natural douchebag state. This regrettably means that Thai food will have to wait at least a few days, but Mack is a very patient man.

A very patient, very hungry man who had been looking forward to Thai, but is instead stuck with the frankly grimy leftovers in the kitchen.

He sighs and lets the fridge door close, encompassing himself in the darkness of the kitchen. He could probably turn on the light without disturbing anyone, but growing up in close quarters with three siblings kind of makes you appreciate the little stealthy nighttime things, and it isn’t as if he’s about to find anything edible anyway.

“Mack?” a quiet, accented voice slurs, and before he can turn completely the lights turn on, temporarily blinding. He blinks a few times and squints against the sudden flash in his eyes, allowing the brightness to diminish before he looks down into the face of a yawning, eye-rubbing, weirdly cute Fitz.

“Hey, buddy,” Mack greets, leaning casually back against the fridge door. “What are you doing up so late?”

“Hungry.” Fitz blinks his way into slightly increased awareness before wandering across the kitchen and pushing past Mack to the fridge. The burst of cold air as he opens the door is enough to send Mack across the room to check the cabinets instead. Within moments, he hears Fitz’s half asleep grumbling over the shut door and senses rather than sees the smaller man walk over, standing on his toes to check out the cupboard over Mack’s shoulder.

“Your breath smells disgusting,” Mack complains, leaning away from the hot feel of it on his shoulder.

Fitz sticks his tongue out at him. “Sorry for not being a fucking daisy all the time.” He leans in close, reaching to the top to grab a small red bag. “This should work.”

Mack stares. “Those are cookies.”

Fitz closes the cabinet, eyebrows raising as he turns to stare Mack down. “Yes.”

“It’s two in the morning.”

“And think how happily surprised everyone will be when they wake up tomorrow and find…” Fitz does a quick scan on the back of the packet. “24 cookies laid out and ready for them. Actually, probably 20. I assume we’ll each eat two.”

_“Fitz.”_

“Oh, come on. I don’t know about you, but I’m not getting to sleep anytime soon and I’m starved.” Fitz casually sets the packet down on the counter, examining it for another brief moment before sauntering back to the fridge. “You can go back to bed or you can grab me the vegetable oil. Your choice.”

Mack stands still for a moment and just watches, eyes gone soft and trained on the back of Fitz’s neck. Though Bobbi often says that Mack has some sort of innate understanding of Fitz unique to the two of them, the fact is that Mack doesn’t get him any better than anyone else – probably understands him less than his old team. It’s not like he’s got some sort of secret passage to the inner workings of Fitz’s mind. He just respects what he sees. Fitz may not be normal by the others’ standards, but that doesn’t make him less of a person – and it doesn’t make Mack like him any less.

_“Mack,”_ Fitz prods, glancing over his shoulder to give him an accusatory look as he stands stock still. Mack snorts, shakes his head, and gets to work.

It takes about half an hour to actually fix the batter (helped in no way by Mack’s constant attempts to lick the spoon while Fitz isn’t looking), but they do eventually figure out the oven’s controls and shove the pan in. And then lick the bowl. Obviously.

“Okay,” Fitz finally says, still licking the batter off his lower lip. “So let’s put these supplies in the sink and – “

“Wash them.” Mack casually licks the last stripe of dough off his wrist. “Let’s wash them. Because we made the mess, and May will kill us.”

“Uuuugh,” Fit groans, sagging backwards in his hard wooden chair. “Do we _have_ to?”

“Yes.” Mack stretches as he stands, dark skin going taut over his muscles until he sags forward and turns to collect the dishes. “Come on, we might as well since we’ve got a while until the coo – “

He is cut off – suddenly, ridiculously, without warning – by a puff of flour erupting in his face.

He blinks the white out of his eyelashes, letting the powder settle into his cheekbones as he stares down a defiantly grinning Fitz and the open pack of flour next to him. “Huh,” he says, deliberately slow.

Then in one movement, he grabs a handful of flour and jams it in Fitz’s hair.

“Hey!” Fitz whisper-shrieks, flapping his hands wildly at his curls and brushing them out in curtains onto the floor. Mack snickers silently as he closes the offending bag and stows it back in the cabinet where they found it, dragging the dishes to the sink and starting the warm water. “You’re cleaning this up,” Fitz accuses, pointing with squinted eyes to the small puddle of flour at his feet.

“You made the mess,” Mack insists, jabbing his index finger in Fitz’s general direction. “You clean it up.”

Fitz pulls some flour out of his hair and throws it across the room before flipping him off. Mack doesn’t stop laughing until the dishes are clean.

+x+

When Mack walks into the dining room for breakfast the next morning, Skye almost snorts her cereal out her nose.

He casts her a long, apathetic glare before slouching to the chair across from her, resisting the urge to keel over onto the table as he sits. There are bags under his eyes from the approximate four hours of sleep he got, and he hadn’t even bothered to look in a mirror before coming down, just threw on some decent clothing and dragged himself to the main room. All three of the women at the table are silent as Simmons awkwardly slides him a plate of pancakes.

“So,” May says after he spends a full minute finding and picking up his fork. “Cookies.”

“Not my idea,” he defends immediately, jabbing his fork in her direction before he digs in. “Fitz brings out the worst in us all.”

Simmons makes a vague noise like she’s about to voice her dissent, but before she can say anything the door opens and the man himself is stumbling into the room, yawning widely but otherwise normal. "Speak of the devil,” Skye grins, taking another bite of her Fruit Loops.

“Why are you talking about Satan,” Fitz replies so deadly serious that Mack almost chokes on his bite of waffle. At the sound, Fitz glances over and his freckled face brightens at the sight of him. “Morning. You have flour on your nose.”

“I – “ Mack claps a hand over his face instinctively, ignoring the full body giggle Skye is trying to hold down. “Fuck,” he says for lack of anything else, rubbing harshly at the bridge of his nose with his palm.

“Relax, it’s a good look on you,” Fitz replies, and before Mack can give that statement the attention it deserves, he’s throwing his hands up. “God, where’s the – do we have any – fuck – coffee? Caffeine? Anywhere?”

“Thanks, Turbo,” Mack says mildly.

“I’ll get some coffee,” Simmons says, but Fitz waves her down.

“I got it. D’you want me to get you any?”

Simmons nods and just like that, Fitz is sweeping his way back out of the room, leaving Mack with an increasingly flushed face and three highly amused women.

“Turbo,” Skye says. “I forgot. You have _pet names.”_

“Stop,” Mack says resting his head on the table. “Stop.”

“I think it’s cute!” Simmons pipes up. “And I’m glad he had someone to make food with him. Up at all hours of the night, that one.”

_“Stop,”_ Mack begins once more before admitting defeat and falling silent to their grins.

Melinda pats his shoulder sympathetically. “Finish your breakfast,” she says with pursed lips to hide her smile before she walks out in the direction of training.

+x+

It takes about two nights for Mack to catch up on his sleep, by which time the cookies have all vanished and the whole endeavor would’ve felt kind of like a waste if not for the memory of Fitz’s expression when flour get dumped on his head. (Mack still has no idea why he did that. He also doesn’t regret it one bit.)

This also meant two straight days of work with just about no breaks other than Fitz and Bobbi occasionally pestering him into a conversation (“no, Mack, it’s Lex Luthor, Hellboy isn’t even DC, read a comic, God”), so settling down with a beer and the X-Box warming up in front of him is like sinking into a warm bath.

Until Fitz dashes into the room, grabs his arm, and hisses “I need your help or I am going to die probably.”

“Uh,” Mack says, but Fitz shakes his head, stage whispers “Not here!” and drags him to the nearest hiding space – a small storage closet that barely fits the two of them.

It takes a moment of fumbling for Mack to find the cord for the light; the dim refraction of it against their faces just makes Mack’s expression that much more intimidating as he stares Fitz down. “Okay,” Fitz begins, moving to snap his fingers before he catches himself and starts wringing his hands instead. “Okay, so – “

“Fitz,” Mack interrupts, reaching out to grab his hands before they go any further, face softening despite himself. Fitz’s entire body goes rigid, and normally Mack wouldn’t touch him without explicit permission first but this is important, this is _important,_ dammit, he has to _understand._ “You can snap your fingers. Stop – stop stopping yourself. It’s okay. It’s not annoying. I want you to be comfortable.” He squeezes Fitz’s fingers beneath his. “Help yourself. Okay, Turbo?”

“Uh,” Fitz says, looking a little starstruck, gaping openly for a long moment, and Mack is worried he’s overstepped some boundary before – before – 

“Really!” Coulson demands from outside the room, and Mack and Fitz jump apart as he slams the door open. “This is the third time this – oh.” The older man blinks and stares at each of them in turn. “You are…not who I thought you were.”

“Uh, sorry, sir,” Mack says politely, glancing over at Fitz who is – for whatever reason – staring at the carpet, a blush rising to his cheeks. “Who…were you expecting?”

“Well,” Coulson says, face morphing into what can only be described as thoughtful disgust, “the last few times, Skye and Simmons have been messing around in here. I’ve had one too many discussions with them about workplace decorum. Last time, they’d both gone as far as taking off their shi – “

“With all due respect, sir,” Fitz interrupts, looking up with pink still stretching across his freckles, “ew.”

“Yeah.” Coulson offers Fitz a rare smile before snapping back into boss mode. “I assume you are…discussing…business?...in the closet?”

“Yes, sir!” Fitz agrees eagerly, drawing himself up to look important. “There’s a, uh – well – I, uh, I broke something of – of – “ Fitz snaps helplessly glancing over to Mack with a clearly desperate expression.

“Bobbi’s?” Mack suggests. “Simmons’? May’s?”

“No, not – not a name, it’s – “

“Hydra’s? New SHIELD’s?”

“Yes!” Fitz’s snapping ceases as he points at Mack, beaming. “New SHIELD’s. There’s some sort of weird communications device we didn’t understand, so Simmons and I took it to the lab and, uh, maybe kind of messed it up, and Mack was with New SHIELD, so I figured – if anyone can fix it. Right?”

Coulson nods. “Okay. Fine. So…” He gestures widely to the area. “Why the closet?”

Fitz blinks. “Bobbi.”

Realization dawns on Coulson’s face. “Ah. Alright, well…” He glances either direction of the hallway. “Well, good luck. And, uh, next time you guys want a place to hide? Maybe don’t choose the make out closet.”

The door closing behind Coulson is loud, but not quite loud enough to stifle the sigh of exasperation as Mack stares on in bemusement. No point in tiptoeing around it. “So you experimented on Bobbi’s communications.”

“Er,” Fitz says, shuffling his feet – and to his credit, he does look apologetic. “I can pay you to fix it?”

Mack shakes his head, smiling fondly. “Wait here,” he says, “I’ll go get some supplies to fix it.”

Mack leaves Fitz in the closet with only a longing stare after his form, and the only thing that follows him is the accented whisper, _“Shit.”_

+x+

“Okay,” Bobbi says, setting her fighting stance. “But you dumped flour in his hair.”

 _Jab. Kick. Dodge – shit, she’s doing the spinning thing, roll away, fuck._ “Can we talk about this another time?” Mack grunts, movements fluid and graceful as he adapts through the fight.

“I mean, we can,” Bobbi reassures, slicing down and hitting him hard on the shoulder; he takes the chance to roll away from her, kicking out as he stands. “In addition to talking about it now. Because you _dumped flour._ In his _hair._ You. _You_ did that.”

“I don’t understand what your comprehension issues are here,” Mack admits, barely avoiding getting caught in the leg flip move Romanoff taught her so long ago.

“Break,” Bobbi calls, and immediately Mack is standing straight-backed, hands on his head, breathing deeply. “Just. Christ, Mack. I didn’t know you understood the _concept_ of fun, much less that you could apply it to other people. With _pranks.”_ She grins, stalking over to grab her water bottle and take a huge swig out of it. “Warms my cold, icy heart.”

“Ha ha ha, Mack’s a stick in the mud,” he snorts, rolling his shoulders and wincing as they _pop_ loudly. “Listen, if you want to talk about people who need to work through their tension, you and Hunter have a couple things you might want to – “

“So your relationship with Fitz is like my relationship with Hunter?”

Mack stops dead in his tracks. His eyes narrow. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Her cheeky grin softens. “No,” she agrees, voice light as she walks over to him. “You’re right. It’s something different. What you and Fitz have is…kinder than me and Hunter.” She stops in front of him, looking up to meet his gaze with a small smile. “He’s good for you.”

“Yeah?” he says, almost before he can stop himself.

Her smile widens. “Yeah,” she agrees, "especially for something that's supposedly platonic." Before he can argue, she punches him on the shoulder. “Five minute break, then we go again. Be prepared.”

“What, you getting tired?” he grins, leaning back against the wall.

She turns her million watt smile on him once again as she steps towards the door. “Nah,” she says.

“Just getting ready.”

+x+

“Wayne City,” Mack guesses wildly, resting his arms against the cushions of the couch and doing his best to settle further back.

“Oh my god,” Fitz snorts, half focused on the first person shooter he’s tapping away at and half focused on the absolutely appalling performance of Mack thus far in the pop quiz he’s laid out. They’ve abandoned the attempts to squish themselves into half the couch each; instead, Mack’s lap functions as a pillow for Fitz’s entire torso, pale legs hanging off the armrest and chest awkwardly twisted so he can watch the screen. “I cannot even begin to describe how wrong you are. First off, it’s _Bruce Wayne_ in _Gotham City,_ and second off, that’s – that’s _Batman,_ that’s not even Superman, holy shit.”

“Batman?” Mack demands, eyebrows stitching together in confusion. “Who the hell is _Batman?”_

Fitz makes an aborted noise in the back of his throat before he manages a disgusted sigh, shaking his head. “Another time,” he promises, “I’m going to force you through those godawful Ben Affleck movies. But – not the focus. Basically he dresses up as a bat. He has no powers. He’s cool, though. Lot like Wolverine.”

“He’s – “ Mack isn’t even sure if that’s a real hero or a fictional one. “Alright. Fine. Next question.”

“Fuck!” Fitz hisses, his character falling to the ground in a splash of blood – _Respawn Time: 15 Seconds._ “Alright, so – Superman’s had a few love interests over the years. Which one was his _main_ love interest?”

“Uh.” Mack stares at nothing in the wall, subconsciously smoothing his palm on Fitz’s knee. “Di…ana…Prince?”

“Holy shit,” Fitz sighs, shaking his head as he returns to the spawn point. “You are – Mack. My god. It’s Lois Lane.”

“Never heard of her.”

Fitz shakes his head again. “Disgraceful,” he says mournfully as he shoots down some camping guy. “This movie is in _three days,_ Mack. I cannot believe how unprepared you are.”

“I knew the Lex Luthor thing,” Mack defends.

“Yeah, ‘cause I told it to you a couple of days ago!” Fitz insists, wiggling a little so he’s sitting up ever so slightly. “Honestly – do you even know what the S on his chest stands for?”

Mack stares, appalled. “Does it not stand for Superman?” he demands, flabbergasted.

Before Fitz can turn his cheeky grin into a scathing comment, there is a stomping noise against the floor before Simmons comes to a stop in front of them, looking somewhat breathless. “Mack!” she greets, face bright red and breathing hard. “We need. To talk. Right now. Immediately.”

Mack exchanges looks with Fitz; he shrugs, turning back to his game. “Uh – “

“I said _now,”_ Simmons snarls, and Mack blinks before obediently pushing Fitz up so that he can escape from the plush grip of the couch; when Mack lets go he falls back into the armrest with a great _whoomp,_ grunting as his spine hits the hard line of the edges. Mack turns to follow Simmons but she’s already headed towards the door. He has to jog to catch up with her as she leads him down the hallway into the lab, slamming the door shut behind her.

“Can I just say sorry now?” he offers, edging away from her foul manner.

Simmons blinks up at him. “What?” she asks, momentarily distracted. “I’m not – I’m not _mad_ at you, God no. I’m just – “ She sighs, nervous, digging her fingernails into her palms as she paces in front of a desk. “I’m _worried.”_

“You’re – “ Alright, now Mack is totally perplexed. “Care to elaborate on that?”

“Just – “ She manages a frustrated sigh.

“Stop beating around the bush, Simmons, just come out and say it.”

“The last person Fitz had a crush on gave him brain damage!” Simmons bursts out, and Mack falls completely, dead silent. “Just – other than me, and I don’t count because really he was just trying to convince himself he liked me, it’s very complicated and psychological and I don’t entirely understand it – Fitz has had one person he had real, honest to god feelings for in his whole life, and he threw us into an ocean! And you and he – “

“Simmons,” Mack says, because okay, he’s kind of catching on, “Fitz and I aren’t romantic – “

“But you _could_ be!” Simmons trills, and _that_ shuts him up. “It’s – I’ve seen the way you act together, alright – for God’s sake, he was lying on your lap two minutes ago – and there’s so much romantic tension there that it’s practically multiplying, even if you don’t have feelings for him now you _might,_ and – you’ve already betrayed us once, you were already spying on us, and I _know_ you two haven’t talked about it yet but you _hurt_ him, hurt all of us but especially him, and I need to know that you won’t again.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Whatever happens, I need you to – you _have_ to be honest with him. Fitz…you were right, he’s not broken but – he could break. Not as a person, but as a friend. You could break him.” She looks up at him with watery eyes. “Please. Promise me.”

Mack steps towards her and bows his head, taking a deep breath. “I promise,” he agrees, quiet and humbled because logically he knew all of this but he didn’t – _think_ about it, why the hell would he. “I will always tell him the truth. I promise.”

She puts a hand on the desk next to her. Averts her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispers, and all her bones seem to sag with the weight of her relief. “Thank you.”

He nods, allowing a tiny smile. “And, Simmons,” he says, quiet, “I promise to tell you the truth, too.”

When she looks up her eyes are watery, but her smile is big and wide, and it’s never occurred to him before but it does now.

Fitz wasn’t the only one that got thrown to the bottom of the ocean.

He wants to ask about it – what’s it like to know that you’re about to die, what’s it like to lose hope, who was Fitz before, who was _she_ before – but he holds his tongue, nods politely, and walks out, and when he gets back to the couch he realizes Fitz has saved his spot.

+x+

At two in the morning, Mack is woken by the creaking of his door.

His first instinct is, _We can’t keep meeting like this,_ but he knows better than to say that so instead he rolls over and sits up, squinting against the light until a tiny, wide-eyed form takes shape.

“Heya, Turbo,” he greets, and Fitz stares stock still as Mack slowly wakes up. “How about you close the door?”

“Can I – “ It’s almost like he’s freezing, like his teeth are chattering with how harshly he’s stumbling over the words – like from when Mack first met him, not from today when he shouted himself hoarse over some asshole that spawn killed him. “Can I – can I sleep – “

“Do you want to sleep here tonight?” Mack offers, and Fitz nods, desperately, kicks the door closed with his foot and crawls up into the bed; Mack lies back down and wiggles to the side to give him room, and he slides under the covers, facing Mack, their noses inches apart.

There’s a long moment where the only sound in the room is Fitz’s shivering – is he cold? Is he afraid? Is he hurt? – but then Fitz says, “Nightmare,” like it explains everything.

“Oh,” Mack breathes, and then – tentatively – he rests a hand on Fitz’s shoulder, moving so that the whole arm is wrapped over his body when Fitz curls closer into the grip. “Do you…want to talk about it?”

There’s another long silence where Fitz’s breathing evens out. Mack thinks he must’ve gone to sleep, and is counting Fitz’s eyelashes to prepare for it himself when he finally whispers, “I dreamt about Ward.”

Oh. _Oh._

Mack pulls Fitz closer, nestles up against him. “I’m sorry.”

But now that Fitz has started talking, it’s like he just can’t stop. “He – he found me,” he whispers, and his teeth are chattering again but he plows on anyway, “and – he broke my arm, stepped on it I think, and then he grabbed me by the neck and he pushed me against the wall and – I couldn’t breathe, I was suffocated – “ His whole body shudders, wrapping itself tightly against Mack’s torso. “Three minutes until permanent damage – “

Mack says nothing but holds him, tries to encompass him as though he can somehow protect Fitz against the whole world if he just gets close enough, and eventually the shivers stop, the world becomes peace once more. “Fitz,” he whispers, and Fitz blinks against his arm. “You’re safe. I promise.”

They lie there for another few minutes, and – “Thanks,” Fitz whispers drowsily against his arm, and they’re both half asleep and Fitz looks incapable of functioning but thankful, infinitely thankful, and – and – 

Beautiful. Fitz is beautiful.

_“Shit,”_ Mack whispers, and they drift off to sleep.

+x+

Okay, so there might be a chance that Mack has been in love with Fitz for a while and hasn’t realized it.

And – to be fair, alright – it’s hardly his fault he didn’t identify it. He’s never been in love before. Who feels an entirely new emotion and immediately thinks “it’s probably that guy I started talking to the other day?” Nobody. That’s who.

And even if he _had_ been in love before – even if he was a fucking love _expert_ and had married fourteen times – he’s pretty sure that love is different for different people, so if he were to fall in love with, maybe, Bobbi, or Hunter, or whoever, it would be _different._ That’s the whole concept of a soulmate, yeah? You can be in love with pretty much anyone hypothetically, but there’s one person who’s. The Alpha Love. Maybe not even romantically, since not everyone’s romantic, but – one person whose relationship with you would be ideal. The ultimate love.

That’s Fitz. Now that he knows it, he _knows_ – that’s Fitz. His be all end all is Fitz. There is no one – there is _nothing_ – that even comes close. And maybe he isn’t that to Fitz, because he and Simmons may be going through a rocky patch but they’re still _them,_ maybe nonromantically, who knows, but – but –

But he promised to be honest. He promised.

And he intends to keep that promise.

+x+

But maybe not just right away.

“What the _hell_ is a Panaeng,” Fitz demands, squinting at the menu as though it might somehow arrange itself into English right before his eyes. 

“It’s meat with coconut cream,” Mack reports, scanning the menu himself and ignoring the stretch of his neck against the collar of his shirt. They’re not exactly fancy, but they’re both dressed nice – button up shirts and pants without holes in them. Mack suspects Simmons helped with Fitz’s outfit, because the dark blue shirt compliments his hair too well for him to have done it himself.

“Just meat?” Fitz demands. “What _kind_ of meat?”

“I…don’t actually know.”

Fitz groans, tapping his fingers on the table. “How did I let you do this to me.”

“No takesies backsies,” Mack reminds him with a grin, and Fitz’s glare starts just as the waitress sidles up to their table, asking with a bright smile and a slight accent, “Are you ready to order?”

“Yes, thank you,” Mack replies with a blinding grin, folding his menu casually in front of him. “I’ll have the Tom Yam Kai, please.”

They both turn to look at Fitz, who is still bent over his menu, nose burrowed in the fold of it. “I’ll have the – the – “ He waves his hand wildly in Mack’s direction.

“Panaeng.”

“Yes! That.” Fitz pulls back and folds the menu with a self-satisfied expression, just missing the soft adoration in Mack’s gaze and the waitress’ muted sympathy. “Thank you.”

“No problem!” the waitress reassures, collecting their menus and nodding casually to both of them once. “I’ll have your order ready as soon as possible.” She sweeps away towards an arguing family that needs seated, and Mack’s focus is once again devoted in its entirety to the man across from him.

Mack should probably tell Fitz now. It’s the perfect time – they’re alone, so no one can taunt them about it, and Fitz can easily back out of the situation if he gets uncomfortable. But Mack just. Can’t. Fitz has been so excited about this movie, and he can’t ruin that for him, no matter how reluctant he is to actually watch it.

After. On the way back, maybe. But not now.

“The movie better be damn good to make up for this,” Fitz grumbles, slouching far enough in his seat that his shirt rumples.

“You haven’t even eaten the food yet,” Mack points out, lips twitching up at the edges.

“Don’t have to,” Fitz shakes his head. “I’m already completely turned off the whole thing by the weird names and the shitty tea and” – he throws up mocking jazz hands – “the _atmosphere.”_

“The – “ Mack laughs out loud, not quite loud enough to draw the attention of anyone else but frank, easy. “This isn’t even a fancy restaurant, Turbo, my god.”

“Still too fancy,” Fitz grumbles, though he looks slightly pleased with himself as he plays with his fork. “Anyway, any moment here is another moment we could be headed to the movie theater. Watching the movie.”

“Good,” Mack snorts, and Fitz almost sticks his tongue out before he catches himself and glances around to check if anyone else saw. Mack tries valiantly to resist thinking that was cute. “Honestly, I don’t know why you’re so convinced this movie is going to be any good.”

_“Excuse_ you,” Fitz accuses, pointing his fork across the table directly at Mack’s chest. “This coming from someone who still doesn’t know what the S on Superman’s chest stands for.”

“Wait, I googled this,” Mack insists, leaning forwards over the table. “It’s his family sigil, right?”

Fitz shakes his head in mocking disappointment. “You still have much to learn, young padawan.”

Mack snorts, leaning back in his chair. “Right,” he shrugs. “Whatever you say, man – this movie is probably going to be shit.”

+x+

“Told you.”

“Are you _joking?”_ Fitz demands, voice abnormally loud as they escape the theater into the night. “That was _awesome!”_

Mack’s smile crinkles across his whole face somehow as he stuffs his hands into his pockets, trailing behind Fitz’s enthusiastic skipping. “Were we watching the same movie? ‘Cause that was pretty shit.”

“That was – “ Fitz puts a hand over his heart, setting his exasperated gaze to the stars. “You _wound_ me, Mr. Mackenzie. Honestly. No taste.”

“No – “ Mack makes a vague, indignant noise. “The characters were all horrible! _No one_ had _any_ personality. And the plot didn’t make _any_ sense, even if you knew the comics beforehand – and the last fight went on for about half an hour too long. How can you even consider that a _mediocre_ movie?”

“Right, okay,” Fitz says, “but the _CGI._ Did you see how well they created the villain?! And the desert! Those special effects looked _real_ – they must have spent millions on that alone, and boy did it pay off. The destruction of Krypton? _Incredible!”_

“The effects were good,” Mack allows, “but effects do not a story make.”

“It was a good movie and you are deluding yourself,” Fitz fires back, and Mack smiles, shakes his head.

“We need to get back,” he says in lieu of an argument, herding Fitz in the general direction of the metro station a block or two away. “You should probably text Simmons – you told her you would when we headed out, right?”

Fitz hesitates, and Mack stops next to him, eyebrows knitting in concern. “Something wrong?”

Fitz’s face goes through a couple different formations, mostly confusion and hesitance, and Mack’s heart sinks as he realizes this is it, because if Fitz is coming out with something now then Mack has to share his secret – there’s no better place, no better time. And he promised. “I – I’m not good at the – at the whole – “ He gestures to Mack’s being, and at the raised eyebrow he receives only manages a frustrated sigh. “I can’t – be – blunt! Blunt. I’m not – good at coming out and saying what I feel. But – but – “ He snaps his fingers next to his head in frustration and then brightens, gesturing to the hand he’d snapped with. “This! You – you made me okay with this.”

“Uh,” Mack begins, because good, obviously, but Fitz cuts him off with another frustrated sigh.

“No, you – this. With – the words and, and the snapping and the – nightmares and – the damage. You made me okay with being damaged. You didn’t make me okay, but you made me be okay.” He gestures widely to himself. “I’m okay with it. Because of you. And I talked to Simmons, and I thought about it, and – and…”

Mack watches him struggle, waits, because he has no idea where Fitz is going with this and he can’t help if he doesn’t understand. Finally, Fitz huffs. “Remember when Hunter said that this was like a date?” he offers, completely out of nowhere.

“Uh, yeah?”

“Okay. Well.” He swallows. “I said yes because I think – and I didn’t think this then, but I think, now – because I think I wanted it to be yes.”

Oh.

_Oh._

“Fitz,” Mack says, with no particular direction, but then Fitz has a hand on the back of his neck and – he has to stand on his _toes,_ holy shit – and then – 

“The S,” Fitz whispers with a blinding grin, “is a symbol for _hope,”_ and then his mouth is slack against Mack’s for one long, long moment.

And when he’s gone – when he pulls away, takes a moment to breath – Mack grabs him and pulls their foreheads together, bending at his knees so it’s easier, ignoring the wolf whistles from strangers across the street. “So,” Fitz says, a little breathless and Mack needs him like that _all the time._ “So, erm. You get it. Yeah?”

Mack clears his throat, but his voice is still a little hoarse. “Yeah, Turbo,” he says. “I always do.”

Fitz grins again then, and Mack can’t help but grin back, feeling a little silly as they pull away. “So,” Fitz says. “We’re…official?”

“Not yet,” Mack says. “One more thing we have to do.” He offers his arm, smiling at Fitz’s befuddled expression. “Let me walk you home? As a friend.”

Fitz laughs out loud, and finally – finally – Mack can kiss the dumb grin off his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the phrase “Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.” The S as a symbol for Hope shtick comes from the Man of Steel movie, not the comics. 
> 
> I wrote and edited this whole thing over the last 10 hours, so 1) Holy Fucking Shit, and 2) sorry for any mistakes! Please feel free to point them out and I'll do my best to edit them.


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